To his mama, Bea said curiously, “What sort of game?”
“Can’t bring a group o’ males together without ’em wagering on something.” Mrs. Gable lifted her chin toward the group pitching hay into a cart some twenty-five yards away. “They’ve a bet on who can clear their patch the quickest.”
Amused, Bea observed the men at work. Straw hats shaded their faces so she couldn’t make out who they were, but their pitchforks whipped through the air, the cart piling rapidly. This might be a game, but the competition was getting the work done.
The tallest of the group, in particular, showed impressive strength. He moved with athletic grace, wielding his tool with potent efficiency. She wasn’t surprised when he finished first, whoops erupting from the other men. He tossed off his hat, and her heart shot into her throat as the sun hit those rich brown waves, picking out the glints of bronze.
He turned suddenly; even from the distance, she felt the heat of his gaze burning through her.
Dash it…what is Murray doing here?
In truth, she ought to have expected him. His amicability hid a tenaciousness that rivaled Zeus’s when he got hold of a bone. She steeled herself as Murray prowled toward her.
“Mr. Smith’s quite the sight for sore eyes, ain’t ’e?” Mrs. Ellerby murmured beside her.
If Bea wanted confirmation of Murray’s effect on women, then she needed to look no further. Mrs. Ellerby wasn’t the only one reacting to him: Mrs. Gable was fussing with her cap, Mrs. Haller smoothing her apron. Mrs. Sears licked her lips the way Bea had seen her do at tea, when there was a particularly good cake to be had. Mrs. Sears’s reaction was particularly telling since she’d just celebrated half a century and the birth of her fifth grandchild.
Apparently, Murray’s animal magnetism affected all women, regardless of age.
Clearing her throat, Bea asked, “How long has he been here?”
“Since the crack o’ dawn when me and Jim arrived,” Mrs. Ellerby replied. “The wind could’ve knocked me o’er, miss, when ’e said ’e wanted to ’elp with the harvest. When I asked ’im why, ’e says if ’e’s to buy an estate, ’e wants a taste o’ real country living…as if that would amount to anything more than the ’unt and ’ouse parties for a toff like ’im.”
Bea shared the other’s amazement. Why would Murray offer to help with the harvest?
What is the blighter up to?
“Whate’er Mr. Smith’s true reason might be,” the farmwife went on, giving Bea a knowing look, “Jim weren’t about to turn down an extra pair o’ ’ands during ’arvest. Hay don’t collect itself, as ’e likes to say.”
“Indeed,” Bea said faintly.
“Now these eyes o’ mine ain’t no stranger to the world, Miss Brown, and I don’t mind telling you what you already know: Mr. Smith is a looker. But there are fine-lookin’ gents and then there are fine-lookin’ gents who can make ’emselves useful. Mr. Smith is keeping up with the best o’ the lads…and adding to the scenery while ’e does it.”
It annoyed Bea that the other was right. And she couldn’t strip Murray of his halo: revealing his true motive for being here would only cause more problems. Saying he was a railway man would be like throwing a lit match to kindling. She would have to deal with an inferno of worry from her tenants, especially since everyone now believed him to be her personal acquaintance.
She held onto her irritation like a shield, hoping that it would protect her from Murray’s mesmeric charm. But as he neared in that long, loose-limbed stride, she felt a quiver in some deep, primal part of her. Lord knew he was dashingly handsome in his tailored attire, but in this sweaty, fresh-from-the-fields state he was pure temptation.
His shirt was untucked, the fine linen clinging to his broad shoulders. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing sinewy, veined forearms (who knew thatforearmscould be so carnal?). He’d abandoned his cravat, the open collar of his shirt revealing a glimpse of the curling hair on his chest, and her fingertips tingled with the memory of stroking that light furring and the hard planes beneath. Her gaze followed the corded length of his throat, sheened with honest male sweat, upward to his defined jaw, beautiful mouth, and his eyes…
The bronze around his pupils lit up the green of his irises like the sun shining through leaves. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her. A slow, sensual smile that made her heart pitter-patter as if she were a miss fresh from the schoolroom rather than a spinster on the cusp of her twenty-fifth birthday.
He swept her a bow. “Good morning, Miss Brown.”
Zeus, the traitorous creature, bounded over to him. The bull terrier wagged his tail as Murray murmured, “Hello, boy,” and patted his head.
“Mr. Smith.” Aware of their audience, which included not only the wives but the men who’d followed Murray in from the field, Bea said pointedly, “What a surprise to see you here.”
“When you told me about the harvest, I was curious to experience it for myself,” he said easily. “I’ve found nothing substitutes for hands-on experience…don’t you agree?”
Sensing the subtext, Bea narrowed her eyes. If he thought he could gain the upper hand by bringing up their dalliance, then he was bound for disappointment.
“Perhaps some things ought to be triedonce,” she said with cool emphasis.
His lips twitched. “Only once?”
She shrugged. “Repetition can be tedious.”
“On the other hand, there’s that old adage: practice makes perfect.”
